


Of All the Agencies in All the World

by TruebornAlpha



Series: The Christmas Caper [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Detective Noir, Detective Stiles, EVERYONE'S HUMAN, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sciles, Singer Scott, Teen Wolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5304956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruebornAlpha/pseuds/TruebornAlpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days before Christmas 1948, hard-boiled Detective Stiles Stilinski can only find his holiday spirit at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. At least, until HE walks in with a pretty face, voice like an angel, and the most sinful eyes he's ever seen. Scott McCall, plaything of New York's powerful criminal boss Theodore Raeken, who offers Stiles the break he's been looking for. But is everything as it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Agencies in All the World

How had it come to this, Detective G. “Stiles” Stilinski wondered, as the sky opened for a barrage of flurries, as delicate and as cold as the snow that stained crimson beneath him. He was dying with not a bullet left in his pistol and a full flask. Maybe it was fate. His father had gone out in almost the same way, but his flask had been empty, and he’d only needed one bullet. Stiles had hoped that it would be a long time before he saw him again, but at least, he knew it would be warm where he was going.

How did he get here? He knew the answer. It was all part of a twisted serpentine scheme that left him tripping down every corner in his pursuit of the snake’s head. He should have known that his foe wouldn’t act alone. The grass was full of snakes, but Stiles had thought he was too tough to bite. He hadn’t seen it coming, any of it, but Stiles had wanted to fall. He’d thought there would be someone there to catch him.

He was always a sucker for a pretty face.

It started over two weeks ago, as the city’s commercialized cheer got aggressively festive. New York was a cold, cruel mistress who’d taken her fill of men far better than he and picked her teeth of the rest of them. In the center of it all, tucked into the second floor of a relic that had been standing since before Prohibition was the office of  _Stilinski and Son Investigators_. Nowadays it was only 'Stilinski,' Stiles just hadn’t gotten around to chipping the name off the door.

The heater was too far away to tinker with, and smacking it with a wrench took almost as much effort as standing when Stiles had something far more substantial to keep him warm. Him and Jack went way back, and Jack always went down easy. The phones hadn’t rung in a long time, and walk-in customers came in even less frequently with the weather working against him. Ironically, it had been that way since Stiles’s first and last big bust. That was okay. Around that time, Jack started making his visits more often. So the sound of heavy footsteps down his hall didn't even register.

A gum shoe’s life wasn’t anywhere nearly as seductive as the big screen would make you believe, but when  _He_  walked through his door, Stiles had a hard time believing it. Of all the agencies in all the world, Scott McCall chose to walk into his.

It wasn’t just the face, it was the body beneath the tailored suit that drew him in. He was a definite looker. Someone had dolled him up pretty like an expensive toy and the boy knew it.  Even if he wore it all well, there was a shine to him that the city hadn’t rubbed off yet. A kind of hopeful trusting innocence that cut through the expensive fabric and sex appeal. It was just the smile that threw him.

Stiles tore his eyes away from the bright grin and gestured for the young man to have a seat, locking the bottle away in his desk now that he had company.

“You’re Stilinski?” He said, hovering anxiously by the chair, his fingers drumming along the frayed leather.

“S’what it says on the door. You can call me Stiles.” He lit a cigarette and took a long drag before offering his client one.

“Scott. Scott McCall.”

The young man just waved him off and finally sat, leaning over the desk with his lip caught between his teeth. It was unconsciously sexy in a way that kept snagging Stiles’s attention and he forced himself to sit back in his chair with a squeak of unoiled springs. “So, Scott McCall. What brings you in to see me?”

“I heard you’re someone who could help and still keep things quiet. I have a…problem with my boss.” The smile slipped from Scott’s face and Stiles was sorry to see it go.

“I’m not a union leader, doll. I can’t help you out with a hard-ass boss.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for. I think my boss hurt someone. There’s all these rumors and I didn’t believe them at first, but I’ve been hearing his men talk and I... I heard something. I don’t know what to believe anymore. He’s been so stressed lately, he hasn’t been acting like himself and if he thinks I suspect him of something…” Scott’s voice trailed off and Stiles found himself wanting to reach over his desk and take the young man’s hand like he could reassure him that everything would be okay.

“You afraid he’s gonna hurt you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Stilinski. He’s usually so good to me, but sometimes it feels like there’s people following me and I know he’s jealous. I tried to make sure no one saw me come in here. I need you to handle this carefully, he can’t know about it.”

A jealous paranoid lover then, not just a boss. Some petty little domestic spat. Not the most glamorous case, but it sure as hell beat waiting until they shut off the heat to his office and he froze to death. Plus, he could use another bottle of whiskey to make it through the holidays _. Merry Christmas, Stilinski. Try not to drown yourself until you get paid._  “You’ve got my word, I’ll take care of it with kid gloves. Who’s this boss of yours anyways?”

“His name is Theodore Raeken.”

Stiles choked on a lungful of black smoke and wished he hadn’t locked his drawer. It would be in poor taste to go for a drink now, especially when Scott’s face softened with concern, and he reached across the table to comfort someone who should have known better. His hands were calloused but gentle, probably from a life of honest work. Stiles wondered which bus stop this pretty little dish had been plucked from. He’d probably never stepped foot in the city before if he was worried that Theodore Raeken was hurting people.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles tried not to be endeared that that was Scott’s first question. It didn’t much work. He should have been asking Scott.

The City that Never Sleeps had her fair share of secrets and sleaze. Deep in her underbelly, carving out his own little plot of filth was Theodore Raeken. No one knew for sure where he’d came from or how he started. Rumors said Sicily, but the Sicilians wanted nothing to do with him. He’d come to town in a big way, spreading his paws all over Brooklyn with nary a shot. One day he was nothing, the next he’d replaced the boogeyman for top dog. It was a known fact no one wanted to speak that Theo had a hand in racketeering, loan sharking, gambling, and trafficking everything from hop to your grandma’s panties, and that was just his day job. He was the sort of guy that kept Stiles’s sort of guy in business or in a box. A box six feet under. He had almost as many friends in high places as did the sewers. Stiles found that out the hard way.

It was little over 19 months ago, around the time Stiles had thought Stilinski sounded better without ‘And Son,’ that an independent investigation brought him face to face with Raeken’s empire and a shipment of thousands in guns and ammunition. It had been the hardest case of his life, but Stiles had split the smuggling ring wide open. He thought he might even get his name in the paper. New York’s finest patted him on the back… and told him they no longer needed his services. Stiles didn’t know what happened to the chumps he got locked away, but a few days later, a tough broad by the name of Tracy Stewart took the fall. Theo was never even mentioned. Stiles wasn’t sure he'd even been inconvenienced.

“Does this mean you won’t take the case?”

Stiles was startled out of his reverie, unaware he’d fallen quiet until Scott interrupted him. Those big doe eyes had gone sad, and his mouth was flushed red like he’d spent the entire meeting chewing it. His shoulders were slumped as if in quiet resignation, but there was an undercurrent of determination in the way he held himself, like a man who’d seen the worst but wasn’t afraid to fight back.

He shook himself and kept his eyes focused on Scott’s rough hands wrapped around his own, trying not to think about the shivers that raced up his spine every time the other man stroked his thumb. This wasn’t like him. Sure, he could always appreciate a well put together package, but he was too bitter and jaded to let those sad eyes get inside his head. Caring about a client never went well and he pulled his hand away. It was just the booze and the holidays getting the best of him. He was always a sap this time of year. “You’re asking for trouble, doll. No one can touch Raeken, I know.”

Scott’s expression fell, disappointment and fear flashing across his face. He looked so vulnerable that, god help him, Stiles actually wanted to protect him. “I don’t have anyone else to turn to, Detective Stilinski. If you won’t help me, then I guess I’ll try to do this myself.”

“You go up against him, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“And what choice do I have?”

Scott leaned over the desk and Stiles’s eyes roamed over the expanse of warm brown skin and the dip of inviting collarbones. He couldn’t tell if Scott was doing this on purpose and putting himself on display to seduce him or if it was all an accident. Could anyone be this clueless about the way they moved or the sinful pout to their lips? Stiles didn’t know if he wanted to protect this boy or drag him over his desk and defile him. “This is a mistake. You could walk away.”

“I'm not that kind of guy, Detective. Life’s full of mistakes. I’m not afraid of the risk.” Scott reached into his pocket and slid a crumpled handful of bills across the desk. “That’s just a down payment. If you can help me, there’s another thousand in it for you at the end. You can’t tell me you don’t need the money.”

Stiles scowled, but he couldn’t argue with that logic. A thousand dollars was a hell of a lot of cash, Theo must pay his pretty little pet well. There was something incredibly satisfying about taking Theo’s money and using it to bring him down once and for all. It was poetic justice of a sort, if justice was a thing that existed anymore. At the very least, he could remind Raeken that he was a thorn in his side and make a few bucks and get drunk enough to get through the holidays.

“Fine, I’ll take the case. Tell me everything.”

Scott took a deep breath, crossed his hands over his lap, and told Stiles all about Mr. Peter.

Mr. Peter was supposedly a friend of Theo’s, the sort of upstanding citizen Theo liked around when he had his doll on his arm. A semi-regular who came to watch Scott’s shows with a gaze that lingered, he had a penchant for expensive liquors and pretty young things. Stiles was about ready to throw in the towel. Mr. Peter sounded about as real as an honest politician, until Scott mentioned the jagged scars that crossed his cheek and jaw. He’d always thought Theo and Mr. Peter were on good terms, unintentionally dropping implications that left Stiles on the edge of his seat. Scott dropped in early for a rehearsal one evening, just in time to interrupt a shouting match that ended with Theo very calmly telling him to go home. Scott hadn't seen him since.

Scott didn’t need to know that the eulogy he wanted to write was for Peter Hale, the last survivor of the once notorious Hales and the greediest peddler in the Bronx and Stiles wasn't about to tell him. He thanked the boy for his information and sent him on his way. The detective was quick to realize that he enjoyed watching Scott leave. The view was something he could get used to and Stiles prized his views. A good one was what kept him in his office, despite its many, many shortcomings. That, and a few unfortunate relapses of nostalgia. Stiles had a front row seat of the main roads coming and going into his building, right outside his office window. He waited a beat, years of experience telling him how long it’d take to get to the ground floor. Yet when Stiles took a glace out the window, he saw neither hide nor hair of Scott McCall.

It was like he disappeared into thin air.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Dans's awesome fics [here](http://nevertrustastilesthing.tumblr.com/)
> 
> You can read Rune's stuff [Here](http://fightingforthepack.tumblr.com/) and find her on tumblr at [ Runicscribbles](http://runicscribbles.tumblr.com)


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